Streetwise
by ThisLittlePiggyStayedHome
Summary: Two disillusioned hikaris stand in a dark place. It is no darker than what they are used to and no less than pitch black. Yamis long gone and the various spectrums of human cruelty discovered, Marik and Ryou were formed by Fate's cruelest tools. Their entwined past a tangle as dense and horrifying as the contents of Pandora's box, and their clear future now a tumble into quicksand
1. Prologue

The club was full of gaudy screaming lights and sweaty bodies. The vibrations from the music shook the floor.

Marik Ishtar maneuvered skillfully through the grinding couples and talentless loners. The leather jacket he wore brushed against a woman's sizable breasts and she gave a little shriek before noting him duly and curling the noise to a purr.

Marik looked like sex. He sashayed like sex. He smirked like sex.

He had been called exotic even in his own backyard of Egyptian desert. It was rare to have that dark skin tone and natural pale blonde hair, not to mention the kohl-lined cat-like eyes that alternated between lilac and gold-sprinkled amethyst.

The heavy earrings swung as he walked and the clinging pants left very little to the imagination.

Strutting to the bar, and acting for all appearances like he owned the place, he set his elbow and arm down firmly on the counter and ordered vodka.

"Master Marik!"

Okay, so maybe he did own the place.

"Keep your voice lowered, Ahamad," said Marik calmly, eyes gleaming with a strange feral power that meant nothing good for anyone around him. "Is he here?"

The man cleared his throat, brought the vodka with traditional lemon slice, and murmured: "Down there, with the golden-haired teeth-down-her-throat bitch."

Marik turned and glanced in that direction, giving the man beside him a good view of his ass. "Ah," he ran one hand through wild, spiked-up hair that made him look perpetually sex-driven; tousling it further and giving it a good bedroom appearance. "I see him."

The purr that came with the words caused the man to heat up in several regions and shiver visibly.

The self proclaimed Egyptian sex god picked up his vodka with the one hand clad in leather fingerless glove and unzipped the jacket fully with the other; walking with swaying hips towards the unimpressive man across the room who was currently feeling up a sluttily dressed platinum blonde.

Marik made sure the man saw him nearing, and noted the obvious appreciative gaze that lingered on his lithe form. He was right beside him before he spoke, drawing the man a little away from the loud music so it was possible to converse, albeit not very quietly.

"Mr Hashini, I presume," he breathed huskily, looking up through long inked lashes with sultry purple eyes.

He took a long sip of vodka.

The man ignored the Western broad who was practically dancing on his lap in favour of the leather clad Ishtar who practically breathed sensuality.

"That is correct. Stella, darling, mind getting yourself another Scotch?" he handed her a note and pushed her gently in the correct direction.

"Marik Ishtar. You asked for a meeting." He noted that the purple muscle shirt he was wearing definitely had the right effect. So did the bare skin beneath the goldstudded collar and half-visible tattoo.

"A pleasure."

They shook hands and let the touch linger a moment too long.

"Come." Marik led the man, knowing that the sharp grey eyes were firmly lodged on his derrière and were likely to remain there until he turned. Point one for him.

He climbed over several couples and stepped pointedly on a a security bouncer who was receiving an extensive naked-body exploration.

For artistic purposes only. _Right._

The room they ended up in trickled a mere echo of the music played above. There were cushioned velvet chairs in a pleasant burgundy trimmed with black. The copious amount of detailed woodwork was done in mahogany.

Marik was very fond of mahogany.

"Won't you sit down?" Marik placed his glass on a shelf and slipped the leather jacket off his shoulders, splaying himself invitingly over a chaise lounge.

"My thanks," Mr Hashini sat as close as he could without actually touching the Egyptian boy. His eyes did not falter from their intense gaze for a moment.

Then one large hand deliberately touched Marik's calve, and remained when he did not push it away.

"So what did you wish to discuss with me, Highlord," the Egyptian asked sweetly, shirt riding up his chest as he settled. "I hope you are not upset about the shootout. I had _no idea_ that things were going to get so messy."

"I did lose several excellent men, Ishtar" - "Oh do call me Marik" - _"Marik..."_ the Gang Lord stopped to savour the taste of the name on his tongue.

Predictable. And yes, if he had asked, he would have been told that Marik **was** a excellent name to scream in the midst of ecstasy. And **no**, he would **not** tolerate being called 'rik.

The pale blonde blinked his purple eyes innocently. Those large orbs screamed: 'I'm young and beautiful and naive. I couldn't have possibly done anything remarkably evil or crafty. Take advantage of me before someone else does.'

"I am loath to inform you...Marik...that the repercussions of that shootout forces my hand. I have to set an example to the other Lords so they don't think I am going soft," Mr. Hashini (whose real name had never as of yet been discovered) posed in most apologetic tones.

No, Marik thought, glancing subtly at the man's crotch, you are definitely _not_ going soft.

"You understand, of course, that I will take over your place of leadership and you will have to send 40% of all profits to me. I am not so drastic as to execute you for your treason...so long as you give me good reason not to."

Fuck this guy was _good_! His wording was excellent as were the tiny facial movements in all the right places. If the guy wasn't such a egotistical dickhead, Marik would have hired him himself.

Taking his silence for assent, the Gang Lord's hand moved from the tight-clad calve to the equally tight-clad thigh.

_"I am afraid that is impossible,"_ said the Ishtar head coldly. He half sat up, moving to brush past, but found himself being pushed violently back down.

There was a click and he was staring down the barrel of a cocked gun. His shoulderblades pulsated slightly from being shoved against lightly cushioned wood. A chill swept over him and he slowly closed his open mouth.

He swallowed and licked his lips nervously.

"No need to be frightened, ne? Just be a good boy, yes?"

"How are you so sure I won't attack you when you put the gun down?" asked Marik in a throaty, somewhat choked voice.

The Highlord gave him a condescending glance. "You didn't really think I came alone, did you? I have snipers trained on your sister's every movement, and my own men blending in this quaint little club."

The Ishtar became subdued, and the gun disappeared into somewhere in the man's clothing. Mr. Hashini lowered himself onto his exotic prey and moved to bring hot, disgusting lips to the tanned neck.

"You need not trouble yourself, I pose no threat."

"Indeed," murmured the man, unbuttoning and unzipping Marik's skin-tight trousers. He hardly paid any attention to the words.

"However," Marik breathed against a pale ear before pushing the man back lightly to give a pleasant view of flushed skin and defined bite-marks, "_He_ might."

A crack echoed across the room and Marik turned away, to avoid the spurt of blood and brains. Mr. Hashini's body slumped and fell onto the end of the chaise in an undignified heap.

The calm, calculating look returned to Marik's eyes as he rose. "Well, that is one goal accomplished," he muttered. "It is a pity though, about the chaise lounge. Third one I've had to buy. It has a good colour to hide bloodstains but I am not sure if the brain fluids will wash out."

He called across the length of the room to the figure polishing the lightly smoking gun that had taken out the late Mr. Hashini with uttermost care: "I suppose you took care of my sister's stalkers and the blunderers upstairs?" the Egyptian leaned against the mahogany bookshelf, arching a pale eyebrow.

"Of course," replied the sniper carelessly, blowing the smoke away, "the bodies have already been taken care of," he paused and ran a critical eye over the other's apparell. "Nice ass, but not quite suitable for your business dinner."

"I'm glad you think so," said Marik deftly zipping and rebuttoning said eyecatching pants. "I would hate to be all eyes and no derrière," he winked, blew a mocking kiss, and slipped his arms into his leather jacket. His tone grew a note more desolate "but you are right of course. I hardly wish to be bait again tonight. If anything comes up, you'll have to fall in with Japanese Schoolgirl."

His companion snorted, conveying the likelihood of that happening.

Marik nudged the dead body distastefully with the toe of his boot. He'd get Amahad to take care of it the usual way. "Tsk. I know I'm attractive, but hardly enough to distract him _that_ thoroughly. I wonder why he did not see it coming."

The sniper took apart the gun and put back together and out of sight in record time. He glanced up with eyes that were exactly the same shade as the woodwork.

Marik really liked mahogany. Really-_really_.

"That is always how it is, Marik-love," said Ryou Bakura icily, setting a cigarette between pale rose lips, "They _never_ see me coming."


	2. Violent Sunrise

...Through the burning hunger  
>A sense of deepest dismay<br>And then a violent kiss to hold  
>Three words we cannot say...<p>

Marik tugged the satin purple tie from around his neck and threw it across the bedroom with vengeance. Rubbing his throat vigorously, he cursed in several languages before sending the pressed coat flying after it.

Damn them! To hell with the little fucker politicians and their expensive catty whores! He'd known strippers less shallow and twice as dignified as that vicious lot of sharp-clawed gold-diggers.

Loosening his black silk button-down shirt and kicking off his expensive shoes, Marik snarled and marched into the kitchen.

Helping himself to a ice-cold whiskey shot, the Egyptian felt the familiar burn in his throat and looked at the bottle with appreciation.

Whiskey. Vodka. The two things on this planet that were fucking reliable.

He drank another. And another.

Well, admittedly not only whiskey and vodka. An image of cool mahogany eyes and ivory skin flashed briefly in his mind and the corner of Marik's mouth curled in the weak semblance of a smile.

Ryou. Ma'at, he needed Ryou right now! If anyone could make his mood swing from angry demon to happily-dancing-on-the-rooftop-naked-without-the-influence-of-spirits-either-alcoholic-or-literal the snarky half-Brit could.

It was odd to think that when they had met at Battle City - not Yami Bakura and himself, but rather the tomb keeper and the Millennium Ring's host, who only had possession of the body briefly - Marik had been a psychotic hormone-driven teenager with issues and Ryou had been a cuddly-toy who appeared sick at the sight of blood.

Marik asked himself again and again how he had not recognized his partner at that time. He had WHITE hair for fuck's sake! Admittedly, he hadn't been in his right mind at the time, but honestly Ryou hadn't changed much at all since they'd met those years ago in the rough backstreets of Cairo.

He cut his musings short with the knowledge that if he continued, he'd sit there all day reminiscing with a glazed look on his face. He was not a dizzy blonde, thank you very much, and did not wish to give any appearance that agreed with that stereotype.

Besides, if he wanted to call the albino bugger he'd have to do it now. Ryou didn't like unnecessary impromptu very much, and wouldn't thank him for a delayed message. Better get this call over with before the ivory-haired Brit decided to change the security codes on him...again.

He punched the numbers into the phone and waited for an answer. His fingers tapped against the table in rapid succession.

"If I'm not on the bloody phone, then use that thing commonly coined 'a brain' and call me at a normal time, stupid wanker."

Brown fingers snapped the lid shut.

Why couldn't Ryou be like other people and have 'please leave a message after the beep' rather then a Marik-personified insult?

But then, Marik Ishtar wasn't exactly your average Joe either. Let Ryou Bakura have his dry humour and sarcasm and rare bouts of innocent adorability.

But what did the moron mean by 'call me at a normal time'? It couldn't be very late. He had only just come back.

Catlike eyes that fairly glowed in the shadowy room turned to attend an illuminated digital clock.

It was just after two in the morning. Fucking politicians!

If it wasn't the beginning of summer, he'd have noticed it at once. As it was, the sky had just become navy and star-studded and the day's stifling humid air had become pleasantly cool.

He wasn't drunk or selfish enough to switch the phone onto a warning alarm, which would have made Ryou answer immediately. Although he was close to doing it. Very close.

Despite being involved in saving the world, Marik hardly won the award for 'least selfish person on said planet'. Heck, he wasn't even in the top ten of the list of most selfless people he'd ever met. Topping that list would be Yuugi Moutou, followed closely by Mokuba Kaiba.

Sighing in a very resigned fashion, Marik exchanged his trousers for a more informal pair and eased himself into a pair of shoes before he stretched, rippling the lean, brown muscles of his torso attractively.

He didn't bother changing the shirt. If his ogling of his partner on said partner's birthday gave any indication, slinky button-down shirts were sexy especially when loose, with the throat bare.

The aforementioned Brit with silver-white hair had been very odd after that birthday and would not be convinced to wear an thin silk shirt again - much less an unbuttoned crimson one that was nearly transparent - despite Marik's subtle leers and childish pleadings.

The exalted Head of the Ishtar clan grabbed the black helmet that hung on the back of his door and lazily fastened it on. He sauntered into his garage and ran an appreciative glance over his sleek black Harley.

Hooking one leg over his motorbike, Marik ignored the biker gloves hanging off the wall despite the knowledge that without them he'd end up with raw hands. He adjusted the helmet and uttered the codes that would have his garage open.

Flying out onto the pathway with all the semblance of a demon in black, Marik pushed in the codes on the motorbike's handle, enabling the security to reform and lock up in his absence.

Ra, he loved technology!

The house was the one gift he had not refused. Ryou hadn't let him. They needed a secure HQ, and comfort was a pleasant option. Luxury was a small word for what it stood for. The place had been built and cared for, even as it was unused at the time. Created and furnished down to the last detail, courtesy of Seto fucking Kaiba.

Ooooh, better not put the word fucking next to Kaiba, Marik's pants went a little tighter. The CEO may be a cold ass bastard, but he was a gorgeous one and Marik really didn't need any...distractions while he drove.

His mind flew automatically in the opposite direction. The whiskey remedied the normally steady patterns of his mind.

He had been drinking. That was already hindering his ticket to the nightclub if the cops were smart enough to notice. Whiskey wasn't a scent that faded easily.

Fucking coppers. Marik hated them nearly as much as Ryou did. It was easy to recall the bloodstained clothes that had to be burned and the little hospital gown on a tiny, sickly child. The blotted bruises that faded and the scars that never would.

"Promise...?" the wide, tearful eyes and the clutching little hand on his wrist.

"Promise."

His hands tightened dangerously on the handlebars. Never again. Never fucking again.

There was the nightclub. He heard it before he saw it. Time to get thoroughly pissed and hopefully find a talented bird to ride. It wasn't a good idea to muse on the fuck-ups of the past. Even if it was the anniversary of that fuck-up.

Finding a parking space, and strutting off towards the screaming lights of the club with the earthquake of music shrieking at his ears was the first step.

He did not need to look far for company.

"Hello gorgeous," a catty brunette with cherry-flavoured lipstick slid into his lap. A spray of cheap perfume immersed him as she proceeded to explore his mouth with secretarial thoroughness. Alcohol had made her eyes bright and pinked her cheeks.

Her smile and breasts were a little plastic, her nose rather pointed, and her legs close to skeletal, but after a few shots the smudged red on her mouth and the slender hands opening his knees again were positively sensual.

They wasted no time procuring a room below.

The girl - Mai, was it? Or Yuki? Meirin? - was a vixen in bed. When Marik's head cleared enough to take in her nude, sated appearance one more time, his chest sank heavily again.

Yes, the sex had been good. Beyond good. There was nothing wrong with her abilities to give pleasure. She just wasn't who he wanted.

There were few people that stuck in his mind like burrs, but something inside him compared every casual lay he had with the idea of one of those bodies beneath him, breathing his name...screaming his name...

Right now there was one at the forefront. Which meant he needed a man for release. Preferably one with pale skin and silver-white hair.

His phone rang. The annoying ringtone that he had never bothered to correct was muffled in the loud tsunami of drums and guitar that issued above them. Still, Meirin - Kaia? Ino? Suki? - shifted in her present slumber and curled a slim bangled wrist around his arm.

With a hum of annoyance, he drew his arm away and glanced at the number. Rishid. He took the call.

"Marik? That noise...never mind. It is not important. I am calling you because your sister needs more treatment," Marik's heart turned to cold hard granite in his chest, "her attacks have returned. The visions are uncontrollable and will not focus at all. It is getting worse. The morphine is the only thing stopping her from extreme self-violence. Apparently, the vision's source has realized that the human body it uses is incompetent without the necklace and has been trying to..." Rishid finally let some real pain bleed into his impatient tones, "rectify the...mistake."

Marik thought quickly, knowing that the cost for regular doses sent to Ishizu would be crippling but necessary. He felt as if he were signing his soul on a dotted line when he replied.

"I'll have another dose sent by Wednesday. Think she can hold out until then. I don't think I can manage any earlier then that, but I'll give double the amount sent last time."

"Wednesday...that will be difficult...but should do the trick. You have our thanks, Marik. The delegations have offered their services as usual. I completed the formalities, just like you said. Is there anything else?"

"No. Keep her safe, brother."

He heard Rishid's sigh and the faint happiness in his tone at the familiar term. "We miss you too, brother. Goodbye, and may Ra guide you."

"Goodbye."

There was a beep and then only static.

You have one missed call. One missed call...

He checked the number quickly, but relaxed when he realized it was not Ryou's. With the danger they were in regularly, it was no wonder that he worried frequently about his (admittedly extremely competent) comrade.

It can wait, thought Marik, through a great deal of drowsiness and a sizable headache. A couple hours shouldn't make a difference.

He should have known better. As an Ishtar, and a focused child of Fate, he should have known that dismissing a call would end only in more trouble yet. If he had known exactly what would happen because of his delay, he would have not wasted a moment in his haste.

But Marik was not Ishizu. He saw no visions or flashes of bright light. No, he was not the Necklace Wielder. There was a tiny nudging that was quickly dismissed, and that was all.

He was tired.

Glancing over at his companion, it was easy to note that she would not be in any position to wake, let alone attack him (no weapons other then her fists and teeth) for hours at least. The door was locked securely and no one outside of the reclusive Tomb Keepers knew Lord Ishtar by his face.

He closed his luminous purple eyes and wrapped an arm around the girl. His fingers traced circles on a smooth thigh. What would it be like to hold Ryou like this? Would his skin be cool or heated under his touch? Smooth or callused?

Slowly, wondering these things - riddles gods knew not the answers - Marik dreamed.

The world was red beneath his eyelids.

He saw Ryou standing in the Egyptian sand wearing darkest crimson on his lips and kohl around his eyes. He was beautiful and smiling and he had no need for cigarettes. The smoky taste didn't encourage kissing much. And he was made for kissing.

There was the half-rememberance of a fight and a young, handsome man with dark hair that fell into ancient eyes and a cloak of shadow around his shoulders holding Ryou in a desperate embrace, but none of that mattered now. Ryou was living, breathing perfection.

Marik reached out to feel him, taste him. But Ryou slipped through his fingers like mist.

"The sun is setting. The time of pharaohs is over."

The lack of cynicism in the words made Marik stare more intently at the vision and try to connect the bright smile Ryou was wearing with the jumbled patterns in his mind that told him his best friend did not exist.

Ryou removed the heavy robe he was wearing, letting it fall fluidly from his shoulders. It was for coronations, Marik noticed vaguely. But when it fell, he saw only the expanse of ivory skin.

And he did not comprehend beyond the host of scars.

They were not white or pinked like scars ought to be. There was darkness seeping in and out of them, bursting through the veins. Marik knew that Ryou with his smiling face was in agony.

"You forgot her hair, Marik. You forgot her hair..."

And the sand was no longer sand but many golden locusts crawling towards him. They all spoke in the tomb keeper elders' voices and said: "Lord Ishtar, Lord Ishtar" as they overcame him.

The sky was red. Bathed in the blood of lost planets and stars. But there was a star. No that wasn't a star, silly. That was Saturn. Very bright tonight. Very bright.

Now Ryou was Bakura with red eyes and the scar on his cheek. They looked very alike now. He only knew it was Bakura because of the scar. And Ryou was telling him that was silly and he was a stupid wanker, because everyone knew that he had the scar and the spirit had just copied him.

But the darkness rising from Ryou's scars overshadowed the sun and children were screaming. Marik had the sudden feeling that he ought to know these children, but he didn't.

And then Ryou toasted a glass to him, filled with the blood dripping from the red sky, and Marik saw his reflection.

He was not Marik at all. He was Ishizu. The Millennium Necklace was glowing around her throat.

And then he woke up.

The world was no longer spinning, but his head did hurt. The sheets were soft beneath hypersensitive skin and he felt rather than saw a fly crawl across the ceiling. Each tick-tock of his watch was like a series of heavy hammer blows against his temple.

"Mmm...darling...?"

He glanced at his undressed companion, who half-opened her eyes groggily before smiling and let them fall shut again. The arm half-draped over his shoulder tightened possessively.

What time was it? He checked his watch and blinked. Fuck Fuck Fuck!

He snatched his mobile and narrowed his eyes against the brightness of the screen.

You have three missed calls. Three missed calls...

Ahamad twice. And then Ryou.

He sat bolt upright. Ryou had called him. About three hours ago.

It had been Ahamad calling when he had been talking to Rishid. Wonder what that was about. Probably some piss-easy shit that the jerk was too lazy to sort on his own, Marik thought uncharitably. (If he was fully awake and rational, he would have noted that Ahamad was very competent and would be insulted at the idea of shirking his work.)

On the other hand, Ryou rarely called him unless there was some sort of emergency. But there had been no warning dial, no message.

Maybe he hit the wrong number, Marik thought with a sharp, near-staggering pang in his chest.

It was irrational how much pain he derived from a casual possibility. Of course Ryou could call other people. It was good for him to socialize. Very good. If not for his constant visitations to the children, he was far too inverted to be healthy.

The ache sharpened if anything.

Should he call back? His fingers hovered indecisively over the numbers.

Strange indeed, how friends were far more frightening then enemies. Stranger still, how bittersweet they were.

Marik's life had fallen through stages of blinding white light amid the long, swirling dark agony. Never one to do things by halves, he was either standing in the sun or drowning at the bottom of the sea.

But Ryou was the only one who could make him feel like he was doing both simultaneously.

As he stabbed the buttons in with more force then needed, Marik attempted at convincing himself that he was doing this for Ryou. Perhaps there was some important message his friend wanted to send him. Whatever the case, it was common courtesy to reply to a call.

He still felt that chuckling, nagging part of his mind that sang: "You're not even WITH him and you're already hopeless! Sounds like somebody's whi-ipped."

Marik ignored this part of his mind well. He had been following this tact religiously for the past six months.

There was that moment of wincing, of course, when the annoying jangle of a ringtone hit his ears. He frowned, waiting for the calm, clear voice to answer. If Ryou was in a hurry and did not know it was him, he'd answer politely. As per usual, however, he did notice it was Marik and gave a dry insult.

Ryou rarely wasted extensive (and admittedly witty and cutting) insults upon anyone other than Marik. The dark eyed albino had insisted it was practically regulation for best friends to insult each other and share beers on odd occasions.

Ryou had been too busy for beers recently.

The children were of highest importance in Ryou's life, of course. Marik understood that. They had no families, no homes; nothing other than the orphanage that would have closed down two years ago if Ryou hadn't put all the leftover loot money from his Yami's thefts into restoring it.

Marik had been right beside him, helping every inch of the way for the first few months. Both of them knew what it was like to live without parents or homes or any reliable (strictly legal or otherwise) forms of income.

But he had also the responsibilities that he had so studiously avoided before. He was Lord Isthar, Leader of the Clans, Peacemaker Supreme, Hand of Ra, and Blood of the Pharaohs.

He had to restore the clans, rebuild their world, and destroy their enemies.

And he had to do this without magick.

Ryou and Marik had lost their shadow magick the same time their Millennium Items were taken.

No, that wasn't quite true. Marik lost his ability to perform shadow magick when he gave the Eye back to Yuugi. Ryou lost it when Zorc was fought and bound away and the Items were far out of reach.

They didn't care. They didn't need magick to live.

Marik had risen to power without magick. Ryou had become the most skilled sniper in Japan and Egypt respectively (although he couldn't claim that as a fact, as he would be dragged to prison under such a open supposition) without any help from that damned shadow realm.

Sometimes, though, Marik felt the oddest feeling - as if the power was bubbling right under his skin. And he was certain that Ryou felt it too, due to the slight stiffening of his shoulders and the smooth way he freely initiated a conversation with anyone who happened to be in the room afterwards.

As he rang the dial and heard the click of Ryou picking up, it happened again.

It wasn't just the chill of a ghost hand on his shoulder or a goose walking over his grave. Marik felt raging fire burning the blood under his skin and then something bright glowing above his eyes.

He looked up, spun around, and caught his reflection in a dirty glass.

"About time, fucker," said Ryou's voice across the static of the phone. "We need to talk."

Marik was frozen for a moment longer, even though the blazing sensation had faded when Ryou uttered the first word across the line.

For a moment, he had thought he'd seen something golden gleaming on his forehead.

But of course that was nonsense. A trick of the light.

"Love you too, prude," said Marik with a joviality he did not feel. "Shall we chat over the phone, or shall we have a face-to-face confrontation."

"Where are you?"

"Out." Best to be vague.

"where?"

"A club."

Ryou groaned, and, despite the sense of foreboding that Marik had hanging over his shoulder like a looming giant, he could not help but find it extremely erotic.

"We'll speak over the phone. In all probability, you have a killer headache and have forgotten the name of your bedpartner - as per usual."

Sometimes Marik hated how Ryou knew him so well.

"I have more children coming in today," said Ryou quietly. "I'll come over tomorrow to collect."

Marik stood up abruptly and nearly fell right back over again. One hand pressed hot fingers against his flaming temple. "We have a gig today, Ryou. You can't hold out on me."

A little sigh, like he had hoped to avoid this exact argument. "We've talked about this before, Marik. Yesterday was my LAST job. I'll see you around, but I'm not doing any more gigs. I have enough to keep me going for a while. And you don't NEED to work your way up any farther. The opposition is falling away, you have no one of any importance to stand against you. You don't need my help anymore."

Marik heard a shifting of blankets behind him. He barely comprehended.

Of course he needed Ryou's help, because he needed Ryou! But if he said that, Ryou'd call him a fucking broad, and that was better then what would happen if the assassin realized he was serious.

He was selfish and he knew it, but for a moment he made a desperate inner plea. He wished he could hold on to their fragile connection. They had been brothers-at-arms and he feared that now they had no battles - no enemies to gang up against - they were falling apart again. It wasn't right!

Marik wished Ryou needed him as much as he needed Ryou.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. His lips curled upwards in the cruel mimicry of a smile. "Wanker. Leaving me out there with all those sharks."

A little snort. "Yeah, and you're a fish? Get real."

But Ryou was amused.

Score.

Marik had successfully averted the depression on his best friend's side. Ryou had not wanted him to get upset, and Marik had dutifully remained cool with it.

Or the closest he could get to it.

"Does this mean you won't ever do the Japanese schoolgirl for me?"

"Fuck you." Oh yes please.

Marik faux-gasped. "Darling, you're killing me!"

Ryou laughed over the line, and Marik tried to crush the supernova in his chest that came from hearing it. Ryou so very rarely laughed.

That royal-pain-in-the-ass-voice-in-his-head seemed to sigh: "Fuck, but you have it bad."

"I hope you don't have such a dirty mouth when you speak to all the orphans," said Marik, trying for an admonishing tone. He ignored the knowledge that the ratty street kids had probably heard much worse.

"Unlike you, love, I know when to hold my tongue. Recall the pole-dancing incident?"

Marik's wince was overpowered by his grin. "Touche."

Here they were, babbling nonsense together again. Ryou was calm and sarcastic and nothing could be more perfect.

"And unlike you, I simply do not feel the need for endless sex."

Except that.

At least Ryou didn't flinch anymore. The high collars were no longer vampiric and occasionally he didn't wear gloves outside HQ.

When it was the anniversary of the girls' deaths, he bought the orphanage flowers.

They always assumed it was his birthday.

Ryou didn't remember which day was his birthday. He remembered the year and had a good guess on the month, but didn't care too much about it.

(It had been last year: 'Sometime this year, I believe I'm fifteen! Never thought we'd live this long, did you?' and then this year: 'what do you know? Eventually I'll be actually legal!')

Few of the orphans knew their own age. Hell, Marik only knew his age because his fucking bastard of a father marked it in the Ishtar records.

Ryou's eyes did not burn cold and bright, like steel, when Marik last mentioned the long-ago hospital incident. Hopefully, he was moving on.

But that was doubtful. No one ever moved on, much less someone stuck on a relentless roller-coaster of ill fate like Ryou.

"I'm running late." Marik might have imagined the affection in his tone. Wishful thinking, as usual, " I'll call you later, asshole."

Wait, what. Already?

"Promises, promises. You've been a very bad, bad boy, Ryou." He took the husky voice of a woman famous for her awful phone sex.

Ryou laughed and murmured some insulting reassurances before he hung up.

And that was it. It wasn't anything other then he should have expected. Marik stared at the bright screen for a few moments. then he gave a little bitter laugh and turned to meet the large eyes of a very awake, very naked woman.

"Friend of yours?" she cooed. She looked at him as if he was a very appetizing piece of meat.

He was.

But he was no longer in the mood for any sexual encounters. "Yeah. I have to go now. Late for work, gorgeous. You understand?"

She did not hide her disappointment.

"Maybe I'll catch you here again?"

"Sure," he forced a smile.

Marik firmly believed his fake smile was far sexier, seeing as it was far more perfected then his real one.  
>By the way she purred coyly in return before slipping her smooth legs over the side to collect her clothing, he knew he was right.<p>

He dressed quickly and gave her one last lingering kiss.

She flushed prettily and smiled as if he had announced his wedding vows. There was nothing plastic about her smile anymore.

He was probably the best lay she'd ever had. Fuck, all his Ex's only agreed on one thing: that he was a veritable god in the sack.

She still deserved better.

When he retrieved and unlocked his motorbike, Marik slipped a mint into his mouth to take away the smell of alcohol on his breath, then straddled the vehicle. The helmet was fastened securely in a matter of moments. Anyone ought to have been worried about the safety of a bike in an open area - much less that area - but Marik's beauty of a Harvey Davison was more then met the eye. Latest technology and fingerpad locking. No thief could steal that sexy ride.

Unless it was Ryou's Yami using shadow magick. But that piece of shit was dead and gone; locked away in the Shadow Realm with Yami Marik. If they weren't eaten alive by the netherworld by now, they were going through regular mindfucking torment.

win-win on both sides, either way.

As he rode across the ways, heading toward HQ, Marik noticed something mildly odd.

He was being followed.

It was odd, because usually he wasn't trailed when he was driving the Bitch Queen. Walking, running, driving a normal vehicle; yes, he had been followed. On a motorbike, it had been one of those rare occasions one put in their journal as irregular.

Now, who could it be? No one around here outside the clan knew him by his face. Hell, only a few of the elders and Ryou and Yuugi's gang (who were all presently on another continent) even knew Lord Ishtar's first name.

As famous as Battle City had been, the records of Lord Ishtar's involvement had never mentioned 'Marik'. Namu had been a vague memory in the papers. Unfortunately, the focus on Ishizu Ishtar had been deadly.

Thirteen assassination attempts. And the police had ignored Every. Fucking. One.

Brushing aside the angry thoughts that arose with the memory, Marik noted the position of his stalker, but could not pin-point the identity.

No way in hell was he going to lead this very obvious piece of baggage to HQ. No, no. He was going to joyride through several strip clubs and alleys filled with clingy whores, displaying their wide variety of assets.

Humming a little to himself, Marik pushed the speed up. He only jumped it a notch. Any more and his sorry stalker would realize that he had been noticed and the Egyptian former-mage did not want that to happen.

The shadow picked up speed a little too quickly and the slow was more of a jerk and less of a drag.

Oh. An amateur. Figures.

Probably some sorry fucker who wanted to steal the bike. All the same, Marik knew better then to let down his guard. Maybe the shadow was pretending to be shit at this only to throw him. It wouldn't be the first time.

A professional was sometimes easier to trick then a newbie. So said one of Ryou's favourite mottoes. So said the scar under Marik's left ribcage.

So when he trailed through a strip club, only to double back and use his handscanner on the handlebar of the currently riderless motorbike that had been stalking him, he was quick and concise and slipped back through the bathroom window before joining a horny, laughing crowd all in a matter of minutes.

Then he sent the fingerprints he'd scanned to the database at HQ to check out the stranger. It would take a few minutes for the results to come in.

Marik ordered a drink, musing over the possibilities of the shadow having stolen the bike and worn gloves since. But everyone he'd known who'd even touched a bike had caressed and admired it with naked hands.

Which made his lips curl back in a very cat-like fashion as he admired his own fingerprints, or lack of them.

That was one thing he had magick to thank for.

No fingerprints for you to get ahold of, stalker! He glanced around casually, searching the room for his tail, but the fucker had managed to remain completely out of sight.

Not bad for an amateur. Obviously not a street kid, though. If that were the case, it would have taken him longer to be certain there even was a shadow. On the other hand, that would have made it a whole lot simpler.

It wasn't anyone sent by a gang lord. It wasn't a cop. He would have gotten an answer from the database if it had been. Something wasn't adding up.

And again, the world decided to fuck with his head by making his mobile ring.

"What is it?" He didn't throw in Ahamad's name when he knew someone was listening and watching him.

"Lord Ishtar!" he sounded incredibly relieved, like he had expected to hear anyone but Marik on that phone. This would make sense if it wasn't his FUCKING NUMBER. "There is something you need to see."

Marik ground his teeth. "Of course. And get me a brandy while you're at it."

He hung up; leaving Ahamad to be a little taken aback. Marik never drank brandy at the clubs. He preferred vodka. Chilled and with a slice of lemon.

Brandy was something that Seto Kaiba drank, or watered polite rivals with. Although, admittedly, he usually threw in a special additive that his guests only managed to appreciate once. It was called Cyanide.

The blonde Egyptian smoothed the creases in his wrinkled silk shirt and fastened two gold hoops through one ear. Two signet rings on the right hand and he was done assuming a plan.

Bitch Queen needed a break anyway.

Upsetting a table loudly with a quick heel movement, Marik slipped out and with one deft movement shoved the ridiculously sharp spike of his choker into the wheel of his tail's bike.

He withdrew casually and mounted the gleaming black Bitch Queen. Before there was a chance to blink, he had scanned for trackers and bugs and found none.

There was, however, the strangest buzzing feeling that wore its way into his head. He gave himself a little mental shove and the feeling dissipated.

He drove the bike to a near safe house and checked the database again.

No matches for the prints.

This little puzzle was going to fall into place sooner or later. And Marik'd be damned if he didn't start the earthquake that shoved them together.

The club was empty when Marik slipped in. It was closed in the middle of the day and staff were cleaning it up.

Narrowed purple eyes quickly scanned the area for Ahamad and found him holding brandy and gesturing expressionlessly.

Marik followed.

"You know what you told me," said Ahamad, voice null of feeling. "About if anything strange came up?"

"Yes."

"When we checked the High Lords body, we found something strange."

They arrived in a comfortable underground chamber. Ahamad drew something out of a glass case that had been hidden in the ceiling. He seemed careful to not establish skin contact with whatever it was.

"A stick?" Marik drew closer, eyes narrowing further.

It was polished wood and had been carved with extreme care. Shorter then the distance from Marik's elbow to his wrist and carved slender, it had all the appearances of a three-year-old's toy walking cane.

What baffled him the most, was the strange leaping fire that seemed to scorch his blood when he drew close. Like electricity feeling for copper.

"It repels touch. It blasted the scanner, when we tried to examine it." Ahamad looked straight into his master's eyes, conveying the seriousness of this matter. "After it blew all electric equipment to shreds, we put it under a microscope and look what we found."

He passed a picture to Marik.

"Carved Runes." Curious. An strange feeling prickled his skin again.

"I do not know what they mean."

Marik sucked in a harsh breath. "It's a Latin dialect."

"Latin? Can you read it?"

"No," his tone was curt. "But I know someone who can."

He had never texted so quickly in his life.

Zorc had used Rune Magick. This looked like his specialty all over again.

But why on a stick? And what did the nameless High Lord have to do with anything?

It was like an adventure with Yuugi all over again, only this time, there was no hero's luck or blasted shadow magick to help out.

Magick.

Marik's eyes shot open. No. It was impossible. He had given it up freely, there was no need-

Beep. Be-ep.

Ryou had sent the following: 'Marik, tell me this is some sort of misunderstanding. Why are you translating the rune patterns detailing a specific person's DNA in regards to DARK BLOOD MAGICK?'

Then, immediately after:

'Fuck. Phone me back in a bit (WITH A FUCKING GOOD EXPLANATION!) I'll have to replenish my credit. My phone's run out of juice. Everything is going static. Give a moment. Oh double-fuck, some idiot's waving a stick around and frightening the children.'

Marik's blood ran cold.

His eyes focused again on that horrible object balanced delicately on an ermine cloth.

'Ryou. Something has gone terribly wrong. Come to HQ immediately. I repeat, drop everything and come to HQ immediately.'

Marik waited desperately for an answering message, but all he could hear was a sickening, endless static...


	3. The Wind is Cold

_...Goodbye, my lover_

_The bittersweet days over _

_You are gone _

_The cold wind is colder _

_And now I have no shoulder _

_To cry upon..._

* * *

><p>"Tag! You're it!"<p>

Six year old Elua ran past the open doorway in a flash of white teeth and ebony skin. Her white cotton skirt had patterns of red strawberries with bright green stalks which the newer girls openly envied.

Jamal rushed by next, Persian-jawed and bright-eyed with laughter. He held Maria's prized silver ribbon in his hand. That aforementioned girl was chasing him without anger; dark curls bouncing loose on her shoulders.

Without exception, all the children in the orphanage were in a state of perpetual happiness today. It was quite impossible to be otherwise.

_Ryou was visiting._

Sharon Davis had met the new children as they climbed out of the old dirty jeeps that had driven up their little dirt road and led them inside the shade of the house.

The drivers had not tarried, but excused themselves, slurped a few cups of water, and puttered away as she surveyed the new arrivals.

Three girls and two boys. Fewer then last time. But there was a possibility that there would be more arriving next week. There were always more children that needed to be combed off the streets and given full meals.

Two of them were not originally from the country, and all of them were skinny and malnourished.

She managed to ease their names out of them. The boys had suspicious beetle black eyes and one of the girls scratched a swelling spider-bite on her shoulder.

She took care of that problem deftly with the staff's specialized first-aid-kit.

The girls were Amunet, Chione, and the foreign Lula. Lula's brother was called Aaron and the other boy answered to Ur-atum.

Sharon knew that they distrusted her instinctively. Why shouldn't they? She was a white foreigner and a stranger to boot. The orphanage sounded too good to be true for creatures that had grown up in cardboard boxes and lived on scraps.

She had been a volunteer here for nearly two years. Sharon Davis was accustomed to caring for children of all kinds. She would be patient and let them adjust.

First of all, they needed new clothes.

"We don't have many sets of clothes your size," she told the tall, lanky Aaron calmly, in perfect Arabic, "but these should serve you for now."

She pressed small piles gently into each set of hands.

"You may want to shower first. I'll show you the way."

And, careful not to touch or startle them, she walked at an easy pace with a trail of half-curious, half-suspicious children.

Lula did not wait for her to leave them when they arrived at the showers. She stripped first and stood next to her brother under the cold water; scrubbing away dust from their journey.

There were slabs of soap that Ryou had sent in boxes. The children had not seen or used coloured and scented soap before.

They were fascinated, although it was amusing how the elder ones tried for nonchalance. Amunet licked hers before making a face.

Maria appeared beside Sharon in the doorway, silver ribbon taken back from Jamal, and Chione's catlike eyes caught sight of the wispy thing swinging on a braid with the narrow-mindedness of a practiced thief.

Sharon knew that ribbon would disappear soon and appear in Chione's pocket.

She sighed inwardly and wondered how long it would take to teach this girl not to snitch the others' things. It would be a problem, but they were still young. There was a chance to remove the bad habits.

"Is it true? Is Ryou really coming today?" Brown-skinned Maria paid no attention to the newcomers. Her almond eyes were wide and shiny with hope.

"Yes," Sharon smiled at the girl, stroking her dark head lightly and rustling a dull earring. "He should be here any moment."

Ryou Bakura. The enigma of enigmas. The mysterious man who paid the bills and made the children adore him as much as he adored them.

Sharon knew nothing about him outside of the sparse words he shared with the small staff at the orphanage.

None of them did. He could be anyone or anything for all the information they had.

She knew that he supported two others outside the country and that his roots were Asian. Like his name.

He did not look very Asian. He did not look like he was from anywhere that existed on earth.

She also knew that, although she had only heard him converse with them in Arabic, he spoke at least four languages and had traveled across continents. She was certain that he could not be older then twenty-five, despite the maturity he displayed placing him far older.

Sharon Davis also knew that she was fully and irrevocably in love with him.

It was, she had realized, easy to fall in love with someone who was nothing less then perfect.

Perfect being, of course, a commonly shared viewpoint rather than a fact.

Ryou did not exchange pleasantries or sit and have tea with the staff members. He had hardly spoken to her at all, much less inquired on her personal matters.

He lived for the children, not the organization.

Ryou had serious eyes that were liquid in the sunlight and flawless skin and rose-tinted lips that could make any woman jealous.

But what Sharon felt was certainly not jealousy.

Although he displayed no known coldness, Ryou had never so much as smiled at the staff members that cared for the orphans. There was instead a gravity to his voice; a silent earnestness that had chilled and certified with time, unlike the wide-eyed earnestness of an innocent youth.

But she had seen his lips curl upwards in warm subtlety for the children in a manner that, had it been unleashed to its fullness, would have been devastating.

Sirens rarely came in his colour or mindset. It made him doubly entrancing and far more difficult to overcome or ignore. She had long ago given up ignoring the attraction and instead noted it and attempted to lock it away from _his_ notice.

She was not the only one either. All the other female matrons blushed dully when he looked at them or stood and watched him leave with wistful fascination.

Sharon knew that she was quite pretty - the youngest, prettiest volunteer by a long shot - but knew that Ryou had not noticed or worse, did not care. It did not matter either way. Ryou was far out of her league in the way of looks and personality. He likely had swarms of women bowing in adoration at his mere presence.

It was not quite despair that she felt after noting this, but simply acknowledgement of fact. She had no chance with him.

When Amunet, who had not spoken two words until now, tugged on her sleeve, Sharon blinked.

She turned and smiled at the shy girl who was half-dressed in clean white cotton and nodded when Amunet asked if Ryou was the nice man with pretty hair that had sent her here.

She fixed Amunet's skirt and smiled again at the caramel-skinned girl. Chione watched them with strangely soft, yet calculating eyes.

Ur-atum said nothing but tugged at a rough string that hung around his neck. There was half a English penny hanging at the end of it. It was obviously his prized possession.

She led the now correctly dressed children down the cool hall and into the storage room. Sandals. There were definitely some that would fit Chione and Lula, but the boys had larger feet and all in Amunet's size were already taken.

She fished out pairs for those two girls and even managed one for Aaron. Sharon promised the other two that they would have pairs sent as soon as possible.

Someone was playing music in the staff room. It was uncommonly done, because the old scratchy player was hopelessly stuck on repeat. The sound of it filled the huge, airy house.

Sharon recognized the familiar style of the Beatles at once.

_'Pools of sorrow, waves of joy_

_Are drifting through my opened mind_

_Possessing and caressing me...'_

A wind-chime tinkled in the wind and a hanging glass bead shone a ray of light across the hall.

There was a squeal of voices, and Sharon knew that Ryou had arrived.

The area around was not particularly busy, although there were archeologists digging nearby and tourists passed that way. They were hardly in the center of some large city. It was easy to note Ryou's arrival, because nothing made the children louder or more delighted.

Two hundred footfalls simultaneously raced each other to their favourite visitor.

Sharon tried hard not to run towards him herself. A strange, hot melting began inside her chest as she led the newcomers towards him.

He was currently being embraced by a swarm of children, but at one word they all withdrew smiling brilliantly.

He turned towards Sharon. She forgot that he did it for the new children. She wanted it to be - just once - for her.

The sun shone in his pale hair, giving the appearance of a glowing white gold halo. His eyes were dark and warm and addictive.

_'Nothing's gonna change my world_

_Nothing's gonna change my world...'_

He approached fluidly and softly dropped to a squat in front of Chione. When he spoke, his voice was clear and quiet, but carried easily. "I brought something for the girls. I thought that you would like to pick first."

He withdrew a box from somewhere on his person and opened it smoothly.

Ribbons. Silk ribbons. All colours, and drawn and wispy like mountain mist.

Chione's wide eyes held Ryou's in startled awe. She seemed to be uncertain whether he was real or a cruelly beautiful dream.

One tiny hand snatched a golden ribbon with red beads clinging off one end and held in to her chest, as if frightened he would demand it back.

He merely nodded with something in his eyes that made him even more wonderful to look at and turned to the girl beside her.

Chione did not stop looking at him, though. She drank up his presence like a thirsty man drank water.

"I thought you would like this one," he said to Amunet, drawing a forest green ribbon with three tiny rhinestones. The child took the proffered silk strand slowly, with much the same expression that Chione had. And then Ryou's eyes met Sharon's and she froze in delighted wonder. "Sharon will put them in your hair, if you'd like."

She realized in that moment that the world really was perfect because Ryou had remembered her name. And he had not called her Miss Davis, he had called her Sharon and he had made that common, boring name sound like a beautiful thing.

Oh yes, she was desperately in love.

Ryou had a ribbon for each of the girls and outside there were more footballs for the boys to play with, since their old one had inevitably broken with much use.

Sharon braided the ribbons into the girls' hair, sprayed both genders with mosquito repellant, fed the newcomers, and listened to Ryou tell them the most marvelous stories in his captivating way.

The children sat beside him, watching with awed, unblinking eyes. He seemed to like hearing them speak just as much and answered all the questions they had afterwards. He even chuckled once, for a startled moment.

Sharon had never heard such a wonderful sound.

It was like being a mother, she thought. Sitting here with the happily chattering children and Ryou beside her...

_Ryou beside her..._

Afterwards, he sent them to run and play in the sparse yellow grass of what could be called a yard in front of the house. Aaron and Ur-atum joined the boys in kicking the ball around. Lula defiantly insisted upon playing with the boys too, taking a few of them aback at her ferocity.

Aaron cracked a ghost of a smile at his sister's behavior, and Ryou's shoulders relaxed at the sight. His eyes were unshuttered when he watched them smile. Sharon felt a dizzying contentment slip upon her.

He stood next to her in the shade and watched the children laugh and run. Often, one would drift towards him and chatter on about nothing. Ryou listened intently; catching every word as if he had never heard anything quite so fascinating in his life.

"They need more medical care," he said softly, almost to himself. "Anu is still suffering from phantom pains and Nassor needs something for his burns."

Of course he knew each and every one by name.

_'Nothing's gonna change my world_

_Nothing's gonna change my world...'_

"We massage creams into Nessor's skin," said Sharon tentatively, throat dry for reasons other than the heat, "but Anu's arm is gone. We have nothing for phantom pains."

Ryou turned to her, looking as if he had quite forgotten she was there, and she was struck again by his ethereal beauty.

Immediately, she lowered her eyes, heart pounding, until he turned his gaze back onto the small ones and she could watch him again.

He pushed a loose white strand of silky hair behind his ear and frowned. A child turned to wave at him, and the frown vanished to be replaced with warm eyes, curving lips, and a replying wave.

"They should never have to be hurt," he whispered, voice as soft as the trembling of dewdrops on lilies. His eyes hardened again; blanking his emotions. There was a small white scar below his ear that she had not noticed before. But he had never been this close to her before. A mere breath away...

_'Sounds of laughter, shades of life_

_Are ringing through my opened ears_

_Inciting and inviting me...'_

He clasped a hand on her shoulder lightly, sending electricity coursing through her love-struck veins. His eyes were openly concerned. Not shuttered and withdrawn.

"You should sit down. You look very tired."

Ryou was right, of course. And there was the small fact of her knees buckling by their close proximity.

"I'll get you some coffee," he said gently. "Then I'll see Anu about the pain."

She was certain that each of his fingers was a flame, because she could feel every molecule of them burning into her shoulder.

It had never been so pleasant to be burned.

When he released her, she could still feel their imprints and she turned and looked to see whether there were any marks but found none.

Ryou was already walking away and lifting three-year-old Isolde high onto his shoulders.

He had named the tiny girl himself when they found her abandoned in an empty shack and none of the children had heard such an odd name before.

It was Celtic, he had explained, before telling them stories about Druids and Leprechauns and ancient happenings.

The staff members had sat in the next room and listened through the open door. Medea had been smiling and crying for no reason. Sharon remembered the oddest urge to join her. It had been an achingly beautiful feeling.

Spellbound, the children had later insisted on him renaming them all before he shook his head and instead gave them the meanings of their own names.

They loved their own names afterwards because Ryou had praised them.

_'Nothing's gonna change my world_

_Nothing's gonna change my world...'_

Sharon noticed, through half-lidded eyes, that there was a remarkably large group traveling past.

They were all wearing loose white robes and black masks with golden crosses emblazoned on the center of them. Perhaps there was some sort of event happening nearby. A tourist attraction?

It was odd, but conceivable. Her hand tapped a lazy tattoo on the wooden rail beside her. The rest of the staff was discussing finances in the back and preparing rooms for the new children. There were only a few of them, and money was so dear. The bulk of everything was paid by one person and that one perfect person alone.

Ryou returned with a steaming mug in his hand and Isolde perched effortlessly on his opposite shoulder. The girl had her tiny hands playing with his hair; her eyes wide and fascinated.

The coffee smelt like bitterness with a thread of cinnamon. Sharon knew it was her imagination of course. They didn't have anything as luxurious as cinnamon in the staff kitchen.

She took it calmly; too sleepily content to flush or avert her eyes. The mug was surprisingly cool in her hand.

His phone beeped and he excused himself to check it, dropping Isolde gently into a chair and offering her a silver ring crested with an Eye of Horus to play with in his absence. He wore that on the center finger of his left hand. It seemed oddly extravagant compared to the plain, yet admittedly expensive clothes he wore.

Sharon watched him go, a dreamy quality in her eyes. She had often wondered why Ryou wore such stifling clothes in the heat. Only his head and hands were ever uncovered.

Perhaps he had a skin condition.

There were more stragglers outside the gardens now. Foreigners and Nationals alike. In long robes of three distinctly different styles. She narrowed her eyes.

What were they doing?

She stood, sipping her coffee, and went down the pathway towards them. Perhaps they were drunk; one of the men had staggered back as if he had been shocked. Her resolve tightened. It was okay. She had dealt with drunks before.

_'Jai Guru Deva._  
><em>Jai Guru Deva.<em>  
><em>Jai Guru Deva...'<em>

A gleaming white and black football shot past her line of vision and something tilted.

Someone shouted and lifted a stick. There was a little violent flash of light.

Ice shot up Sharon's spine and she halted her step. "Children, come inside!"

She saw Ryou's white hair out of the corner of her eye, moving towards her. Faces turned. Hands moved.

And then something exploded, and she was flying backwards, smelling burnt flesh, and smashing into something hard that splintered.

There was nothing but pain and black spots before her eyes. Her front was on fire.

Everyone was screaming. And no one as loudly as she was.

She felt someone drag her by the leg and knew it was not Ryou, because the hands were cold and they were hurting her.

There was a shout beside her and the hand let go. Her broken leg hit the ground and she screamed.

She forced her eyes open and saw flashes of green and red shooting everywhere and hitting robes and children alike. Everything was blurry with heat and steaming pain.

And then she saw it. The orphanage was on fire. The roof crumbled inward like the dripping of a rotten tomato.

Sharon reached out for something - anything - to hold onto and found the smoldering arm of Amunet beside her.

She dropped it and screamed her throat raw.

Dead. The little shy girl whose hair she had tied with a pretty green ribbon such a short time ago was nothing but rubble and ashes beside her. Her skull was visible through the blackened flesh and cracked open, splattered with dark dried blood and dripping with what was left of her melting eyes. A wisp of hair sizzled and crumbled like charcoal.

Sharon tried to turn over, but bit through her tongue when her body shifted onto her broken leg. She tasted copper and zinc, but had no strength in her throat to cough.

Little fragments of her coffee cup had shattered into her palm.

Jamal was lying in a scorching heap, one little sandaled foot sticking out.

_'Nothing's gonna change my world _

_Nothing's gonna change my world...'_

Sharon's tears burned her eyes as she dragged herself along the ground by her fingernails.

Where was Ryou?

Was he...could he be...no! NO! He was not dead! The others had to still be...God, help them be alive!

Sharon's body shook. Two dozen splinters the size of fire ants made their presence known in her back, arms, and legs. She couldn't bring herself to look at the damage. After seeing the small ones...

Sharon bit back another heaving sob, but couldn't stop the shaking of her limbs. Tears sizzled on her cheeks, hot and blistering.

Her body was wet and sticky and smelt like burning rust, but she ignored the implications.

She had to find someone she knew alive. Anyone. Someone had to still be alive.

The robed figures were drifting in and out of the smoke. Cracking like chestnuts in the fireplace. No...she must be delirious because people did not crack like whips and vanish.

There had to be someone still alive, because a child was unleashing blood-curdling shrieks.

"..eyes! MY EYES!"

Isolde was running through the smoke screaming and clutching her face. Blood dripped through her tiny black-scorched fingers.

The last robed figure turned and pointed a short, slim stick at the girl.

"Avada Ke-" he shrieked and stumbled, the handle of a knife protruding from his neck. He hit the sizzling ground, scattering ashes.

Ryou stood behind him, black and burnt and dripping in blood. His eyes were like two dark, encompassing flames.

Thank God, he was alive! Isolde and Ryou. At least two of the others were alive.

"Isolde," Ryou whispered throatily, forcing his steps towards her. His leg was twisted at an odd angle but he gave no sign of the pain. She could not see his wounds for the blood that coated him. "I'm here."

The girl followed his voice and ran into his arms. Her sandals had burnt through and her ankles were flaming red. He carefully extracted her hands from her face and Sharon saw the pink blistering flesh where the girl's eyes had been.

_'Nothing's gonna change my world_

_Nothing's gonna change my world...'_

Isolde sobbed uncontrollably, muffling her face in Ryou's shirt.

"Shh," he pressed the toddler tenderly into his arms. "It's going to be okay."

Ryou carried her out of the smoke and flames. He appeared again in a moment, eyes scanning for survivors.

Then Sharon tried to reach a hand towards him and his eyes zeroed on her. She knew something was wrong with him by the way he took slow, shuddering steps towards her, but could not make it out until she saw a piece of rubble the size of two hands sticking out of his thigh.

He reached down to heave her into his arms and she felt everything spin and everything pore scream as he did so. He rested her head against his shoulder and she could feel the tension in his body. Despite the agony he must be going through, he had not taken the splinter out yet lest he lose more blood and pass out on the children.

"Chione is burnt, but alive," he spoke to her softly in English - the first time she had ever heard him do so - and brushed the crisped hair out of her eyes, "Aaron is crying for his sister, but he also lost his leg, knee-down. I staunched the blood-flow. They are out of the fire and Medea just returned from buying bread at the village; she is watching them now and tending to them. They have passed out from blood-loss and shock."

"Ryou..." she whispered, trying to lift her hand; to touch his beautiful face. They was something in his eyes that she did not understand.

_'Nothing's gonna change my world_

_Nothing's gonna change my world...'_

Everything was shadows and fading. There was a prick on her arm and she was suddenly lying on a smokeless ground with Ryou beside her holding a syringe and little huddles in blankets behind him.

Sharon was entirely numb. She could not feel her own skin, her own blood.

She turned her head weakly and saw the flames a short distance away. There had been so much pain...too much pain. And no more adrenaline to drag her onward. Now everything was dull.

His face bent over hers, examining her carefully. He was beautiful still; more painfully beautiful with black soot on his face and blood crusted around his right ear and down his neck than a choir of lily-white, dry-cleaned angels.

"Ryou...I...I'm sorry..." and she did not have to say any more or try to kiss him like she yearned to, because suddenly there was recognition there, along with a softness, a heartbreaking sadness she could not comprehend.

He threaded his hot, damp fingers with hers and kissed her palm gently. Sharon had not realized just how mutilated that limb was until now, and something choked violently inside her chest.

Tears blurred her vision again, but Ryou spoke to her quietly. His voice was calming, like a balm to her mind and the shadows of her soul.

He told her about his twin sister, Amane, and how Isolde had been his English mother's name. He told her the little he remembered of his family before they died and how his last name had actually been taken from his last guardian when Ryou was ten years old. He spoke of how he had always dreamed of creating an orphanage where all children could go and be loved unconditionally, despite their flaws. Everyone had flaws; why should the little ones be judged?

Then Ryou said, in a voice softer than thistledown, that he had wanted her to be there, because he had always admired her gift with children. She had always been a figurehead for this dream. An inspiration.

A painful happiness exploded inside of her, brighter and larger then the sun. She could not see, but she felt the brush of those perfect lips on her forehead. It was feather-soft and tender. He did not care that she was now scarred and hideous. He did not care...

The tears rose faster now, but they were tears of relief...it was over...he...he loved her...even just a little...

He kept speaking in that gentle, even tone against her forehead. She relaxed and heard him, even if the words faded from recognition.

It was odd. She had been certain the songs were stuck on repeat, but now she heard a different Beatles' song.

_'Don't you know it's gonna be- _

_Alright _

_It's gonna be-_

_Alright...'_

And she smiled at once, and slipped into peaceful oblivion; Ryou's perfect warmth surrounding her and a beautiful song echoing like silver ripples in her ears.

A drop of liquid sank into her hair.

Even as her last breath brushed against his throat.

* * *

><p>Marik saw the smoke first.<p>

He had not wasted a moment in heading after Ryou, despite Ahamad's loud and obvious misgivings. Fuck Ahamad's misgivings, Ryou was in danger!

Bitch Queen had never sped so fast before. She squealed on the dirt sent steam rising up behind him. The handlebars appeared to be glowing in the late afternoon light.

Marik had forgotten his helmet. Right now, he couldn't give a fuck about safety regulations. If anyone pulled him over for speeding, he'd send a pretty little bullet through their skull.

His chest constricted painfully when he saw the dark pillar rising from the area around the orphanage.

Marik did not even let the idea of Ryou being dead settle in his mind. Because, dammit, Ryou was not dead! Ryou would not die on him! He couldn't! He wouldn't!

The ice that clawed slowly around his heart whispered that Ryou had nearly died before so many times. Perhaps his luck had run out. Perhaps today was the day when the fiddler demanded payment...

He swung off Bitch Queen, heart racing, and ran through the blazing ground, avoiding the crash of trees and stifling dust clouds. A horrible smell assaulted his nostrils, but he covered his nose with the back of his hand and charged into the inferno.

Sweat bunched the silk of his shirt against the taut brown muscles of his abdomen and made his skin slick and shiny and compressed. Marik didn't give a fuck as to what he looked like now, or what happened to his fucktard shirt.

Dammit Ryou!

And then he saw the first charred bodies.

No...

A tiny hand, the ribs splintered out of a small chest...a swollen purple tongue...

A woman called out from somewhere beyond his vision and Marik followed the voice, refusing to acknowledge the fact that...that Ryou might...that Ryou could be...

NO!

He clicked his short knife open; ready to attack if there was any kind of danger. The woman had been at least twelve meters away. That meant the blade would spin four and a half rotations before it struck her right between the eyes. He was no Ryou, but he could aim blind from that distance and still hit his target dead-on.

If she had been the reason for the static on Ryou's phone...if she had dared...

"Someone's there!" the woman said, and her voice quavered. "Ryou..."

Marik's knife closed and disappeared back into his sleeve. He ran out of the inferno and into a dusty burnt clearing, fuzzy-eyed and breathing deeply.

The woman's eyes widened and she covered her mouth with one hand. She had hardly been touched by the fire; a mere dusting of black on her hands and plain cotton clothes.

There was a movement some meters behind her, and Marik turned to see soot-stained white hair on a blood-crusted body; a body that was clutching a charred corpse with all the tenderness of an angel with a newborn.

He rushed over without a moment's hesitation.

There were lumps in the blankets beside Ryou. Children. Sleeping. Bleeding. Oh God, were there only three left?

A young woman, disfigured with burns and coated in dark, dried blood, lay dead and unmoving in his best friend's arms; her head against his shoulder. She might have been beautiful once; there was no way to tell. For all the heartbreaking gentleness and closeness Ryou displayed with her, she might have been a queen or a criminal.

Marik swallowed.

_His_ queen or criminal.

Ryou's face was blank; staring out straight in front of him and dangerously expressionless. If there had been any tears, they had dried in the heat.

Marik sat down next to him, knowing that he could not touch Ryou right now because Ryou would not be able to bear it. Ryou did not want crushing sympathy.

But Marik knew that Ryou needed him just - _there_.

"They were magicians, you know," Ryou's voice was quiet and startling. There was a strange quality there that was indiscernible and subtle, but there. "They always are, aren't they?"

Marik said nothing. He looked at Ryou with intense purple eyes and, for a moment, he hated the woman in his best friend's arms because Ryou must have loved her to hold her corpse that way instead of one of the children that he so adored.

Ryou's head turned slowly and his eyes locked onto Marik's. The level of intensity was overwhelming. The Ishtar forgot that he hated anyone other then those who had done this; who had hurt Ryou in this way. He had spent years attempting to repair the damage that had been done to Ryou's soul. How _dare_ they undo it! How dare they even think about touching a hair of Ryou's perfect, pale head!

And why, why did every fucking Mage have to target them? They had no more Magick! They had given it up! There was no fucking _need_!

There was no present urge to weep. Marik knew they had both forgotten how to cry long ago. He felt instead an overwhelming emptiness that hollowed out his very core.

Then a spark lit inside and Marik felt some emotion that was not his own.

"They are going to rue their very existence," said Ryou, voice subdued and frighteningly neutral of all and any feeling. "I'm going to destroy them for this."

And looking into the icy darkness of Ryou's eyes that outdid the Spirit of Millennium Ring on his worst rampage, Marik didn't doubt him for an instant.

"I'll help you," he said, grasping Ryou's shoulder with feeling. Ryou did not shrug him off. "_By_ _Ra_, we'll make those fuckers pay!"

* * *

><p>When the woman - Medea - came over later, she found Ryou still holding the shell of Sharon Davis and leaning against the wild-looking Egyptian with lilac eyes.<p>

"We have to leave now," said Ryou, eyes still unmoving. "The children won't be safe here anymore. More will come after."

"Where do we send them?" asked the Egyptian. "They cannot remain with us."

Ryou turned his gaze away from the orphanage's smoking ruins. "Kaiba."

Apparently that took his friend aback. "**Kaiba?**"

Ryou nodded firmly. His eyes reflected the tall, orange flames. "He'll take care of them. He'll know what to do."

The illusion of red flashed in his eyes. "He'll understand."

* * *

><p>I want to thank ranchan-akari, Cadens Stella, DemonKittyAngel, Hex the Magician, A Neverending Dream of Flight, SeaweedBrainVon, NobodiesChain, Tranquil-Chaos, Our Favourite Yami, and Aicutora for all your great reviews!<p>

I'm not hinting or anything.

*looks intensely at the review button*

Okay, so maybe I am.

Speak if you think the poem verses don't match the chapters. I can always write new ones or take different verses from those poems.

I promise there will be more HP world from here on. I solemnly swear it.


	4. To Make Ripples in Ice

_...What strange fancies I rapidly ink!_  
><em>Seraphim beckon me quickly drink<em>  
><em>To drown in the nepenthe<em>  
><em>Of the sacred pool of Lethe<em>  
><em>And yet how the liquid seems to creep<em>  
><em>Through my fingers, while I weep!...<em>

* * *

><p>Love wasn't something you could command. It was like the cat that would swing from purring deliciously while nuzzling your chest to attacking you with drawn mercury claws.<p>

You had to learn, through slow, painful experience, when to pet and when to withdraw.

Passion took many forms. The higher the flames, the wider the chance of getting burned beyond recognition.

_Remus had the scars. And he had been painstakingly careful._

When the Mauraders all wished to agree upon a point, they stated that Remus had never been a good poker player.

The grass was also green.

And if they said Remus was abymissably bad at poker, that meant the sprinklers had come in and perhaps the neighbours had collected a gnome amidst that green grass.

When James had been heartbroken because Lily had been laughing with the Ravenclaw Captain but shunned him still, the Gryffindor had been happily surprised to win fifty chocolate frogs in their weekly game.

When Peter was rushed to the hospital wing because he had been clumsy on the broom and broke his leg painfully, he had been delighted to beat the three others out of a pile of Zonko's finest. Sirius and James still hadn't figured out how slow-on-the-uptake Peter had thrashed them so thoroughly.

Remus had been very quiet in that game, and once a curious look had come over his face when he served the cards. If they didn't know better, they might have thought that Moony was cheating.

But this was _Moony,_ and he hadn't won more then a round that whole night, so of course the very idea was ridiculous.

Moony never seemed to win their games, but of course they were very generous and shared their winnings with him anyway.

Poor Moony. He had little money to speak of - the least of them all - and he never seemed to have _any_ luck.

Sirius was the wizard-poker champion. His family was cruel to him regularly and his cousins - excepting the silent and graceful Andromeda - did their best to follow the example and ruin his life.

_If he wondered why Moony insisted on shuffling every time, and why he always got high sets and attained the title of champion, he never thought on it long._

Remus had never begrudged them their joy of winning. And what could it hurt?

James was happier thinking he was the best at Quiddich and Transfiguration and that Remus needed a great deal of help on both subjects regularly.

Sirius was keener to brag over his long lists of parental harrasments when he thought he was the only one that had any.

When Pete figured out the charm for their homework first, and stared at his wand in deilght, Remus quietly lowered his own under the table and smiled at his friend with a gentle "Of _course_ you could do it."

He had been the most agreeable friend, the calm and soothing presence in their group. Everyone came to him when they were upset and marveled at how he mended their troubles.

Because Remus couldn't _possibly_ have any of his own. He never ranted or roared or threw things across the room in temper. Remus was always calm. He had probably never been angry in his life. He couldn't possibly have ever been _heartbroken_ or chased to the edge of _sanity_.

Of course he was agreeable. He _had_ to be. He had to be what they needed so they wouldn't despise him for his shortcomings that arose within and without every full moon.

He didn't mind being pushed into the background, sitting on the fringe. His friends thought him wonderful. His friends, his _perfect_ friends, said that he was like a brother.

_They liked him. And he needed so desperately to be liked._

They led the school's popularity together. Remus as a silent, blissfully happy shadow of the other two and Peter the obvious tag-along.

_People noticed Peter before they noticed him._

He had never realized how young - how very young and stupid - he had indulged them into being.

Horrible images burned into his retinas.

_James dead, hazel eyes wide and unseeing. Peter dead. Only one finger left over. Sirius blamed. Laughing. Locked away in Azkaban._

_And then his world had shattered._

Remus still remembered the Quiddich game on his seventeeth birthday. There had been a wild party afterwards and plenty of firewhiskey.

He had left to watch the sunrise on the Astronomy tower before heading back to a wasted, practically empty room.

_A very drunk Sirius had hauled him close and kissed him hard on the mouth. There were some vague mutterings that drifted between Quiddich rides and the amber colour of his eyes before the speaker passed out; inebriated._

Remus had never mentioned it to him. No one else had seen or known and Sirius did not remember the next day or any of the days after. It was of no passing consequence. It would have probably only embarrassed him anyway.

But Remus never forgot. Sometimes he touched his lips lightly - in moments of painful splendor, like in the indigo silhouette of sunset or the cold days when snow spun in magical webs and danced around trees; stinging and beautiful - before giving a little bitter laugh and turning away.

_He could still see images of Sirius and James laughing together; an arm slung over the others' shoulder. Sunlight catching the highlights of their hair and the blazing clarity of their eyes._

_And Sirius, wonderfully vibrant Sirius, gleaming as bright as the sun..._

_Peter watching his idols with watery, pained eyes. Perhaps he finally came to terms with the fact that he was far less to them then they were to him._

Wormtail had known he was weak and had never been forced to defend himself from his own weakness. He had always had Remus there to cover for him...James and Sirius to protect him...to encourage the bullying of those smaller...

_And then suddenly the images faded, James faded with Peter and Sirius was covered in blood, laughing horribly as he was locked away into the darkness._

_A grey finger on grey, horrible lips with a secret smile. "Shhhhshhhhshhh..."_

_And there was no more sun for years._

Then Peter was alive again, rat-faced and frightened and Sirius was dark and murderous. The insanity of the Blacks revealed itself once more.

Because even if Sirius was a staunch Gryffindor, and a friend of Mudbloods and Blood traitors alike, he still had the darkness and ice-cold, murderous temperment of a Black.

_Brilliant Sirius...perfect Sirius...glorious in his darkness..._

He had never expected Remus to stand against him and Remus never did.

Both of them needed that sense of normalacy.

Peter had thought Remus would be the one that saved him, rather than Harry. Harry was a last resort.

_But Peter had known after one desperate glance that it did not matter whether he was innocent or not. Remus was no longer quite as agreeable. He was tired. Very tired._

_For a moment, he had revealed himself fully and Peter had seen the steel and flame that Remus had never shown before and then he had known...oh, Peter had known..._

It wasn't Sirius that Peter had warned the Dark Lord of when they listed the highest dangers to their plans. Sirius was powerful, but obvious.

Remus on the other hand was a double edged sword. Remus had been underestimated like Peter. Remus was quiet and deadly and potentially twice as powerful as Sirius at least.

If there was any chance they could win him over, they would do it.

There was only one other person that the Dark Lord had been more interested in procuring.

Severus Snape. Another silent, unnoticed talent that had hid himself away by being dislikable and unattractive.

The Potions Master still hated Peter (of this Remus was certain) but said nothing except silkily dangerous words that struck all the worst ways and Peter wondered silently if this was divine retribution.

Remus had known that Snape saw Peter whenever he was at those meetings. He was glad that Snape was the spy then, because if he had been then Sirius would have eventually discovered_..._even Sirius would have figured out what his last existing friend had taken such trouble to hide.

_"You haven't a malicious bone in your body, Moony."_

Sirius had been all bright and oblivious when Harry worried about him or dark and brooding and dramatic. Those two were the only poses he could pull off kindly.

Remus could have told Harry that it was useless. He had been worrying about and taking care of Sirius under the radar for years and he had never noticed then either.

But there was no use. Saying that would alieviate none of Harry's anxiety, and merely set him on edge; perhaps even giving the illusion of _insulting_ Sirius.

It was a terrible thing to realize your best friend's faults so late. It had driven Peter to do terrible deeds. But Remus _did not think ill of Sirius._

_When you love a person, you embrace them - faults and all. Especially the faults._

He held Harry back when Sirius fell through the death veil. Harry's pain was all that kept him from embracing his own.

_Had Harry been aware that he had heard James and Lily, but they were not even the strongest voices? Something of Peter was there. The Peter they liked and Sirius had teased remorselessly laughed behind the veil and whispered of old, half-forgotten familiar things._

_Remus heard his mother's voice faintly; the lost, happy moments before he was five years old and Fenrir had ripped her throat out before advancing on him...eyes filled with black laughter..._

There was a girl there too.

_Had any of them noticed his crush on a shy Slytherin who sat near him all those years ago in potions classes? Had they realized just how hurt he was when Sirius turned her hairpins into weevils._

_Wisteria had been horribly afraid of weevils. Her screams had made three corners of Hogwarts laugh and Remus feel a horrible ache inside when Sirius turned to him, all golden laughter and handsome profile with something brighter, more intense than humor in his grey eyes._

He had seen Wisteria's face again fifteen years ago on a newspaper detailing the dementor's kiss performed on a Death Eater suspected-murderess.

_There were so many voices. They seemed to pull at something broken in his chest and at the faulty swallowing function on his throat. The veil beckoned to him...but Harry was screaming. He had to stay for Harry. Harry and Tonks. All that was left of his shattered lifeline._

Remus was so very cold. His hands were turning a slow blue, as if the brush of bluebells and china had marked the underside of his skin.

He had found a dark red rose to put on the empty grave he had made for Sirius. A great velvetine globe with a long ivy-green stalk and clawing thorns.

_He was too cold to cry anymore. Too tired...far too tired..._

Remus knew that he had to leave soon. He could not stand here for much longer; beside a small stone and a handful of childhood secrets buried forever under the cold, unforgiving earth.

Sirius was not beneath his gravestone, but Remus' dreams were.

The pack was waiting for him. Any longer and Fenrir would be displeased.

Dumbledore had been very clear in pointing Remus to remain on Fenrir's good side. A spy could not be so self-centered.

Remus removed the parchment in his tattered sleeve and pressed it into the soft earth overshadowed by a looming marble slab heralding Sirius was dead.

The ink vials had been put there in his absence. He tucked them carefully into yawning, magically extended inner pockets and patted the dark, crumbling soil with the same method he had calmed Sirius caught in the thralls of a nightmare post-Azkaban.

The message told Dumbledore what the great wizard was afraid to hear. Voldemort was approaching the High Vampires.

But it was the slayers that had piqued Remus' interest. An _honourable_ enemy, the vampireal ambassador had said through demure, elegant canines; dark eyes brimming with the richest dregs of Pinot Noir.

They fought each other, slaughtered each other, _admired_ each other.

At a drop of a hat, they might even ally until the large war had been fought and the bodies were humming with flies. Then they would conclude their business crisply; efficiently.

The werewolves had to remain without the vampire camps, when those arrived and settled. But the ambassador had been very interested to see them. _Fascinated...if that were possible..._

The overwhelming scent of bitter wine and evening lilac and freshly shredded sandlewood flooded his senses as the attractively model-gaunt creature with jetty-fringed eyes stark against marble skin passed the gathered wolves.

All the hairs on his body had risen and it hurt - hurt to restrain himself from attacking this deceptively fragile creature that instinct told him was his enemy.

He had touched Remus' jaw with long, cold, tapered fingers - _so much like Sirius' after he had been out in the chilled weather_ - and breathed "Îl atinse umbra" with a dark curling of his thin lips.

Ambassador Codename Matrasit had walked away with a sort of subdued satisfaction that had blanked beneath his ivory features like a wet drop of ink blanks a paper's contents.

The next day Remus had risen in the ranks and Fenrir kept giving him unreadable, hooded looks. He would not explain what had happened or why.

He had lost weight again and his skin papered over blue veins and crow-lines. Stubble had grown and he had not bothered to correct it.

_Sirius would have force-fed him a ridiculously large meal. 'Eat up Moony,' poke 'can't have you skeletizing before our eyes.'_

_Dead Sirius. No body, just...gone. A lifetime of laughter and memories vanished suddenly, leaving a cold empty room. Dead James. The boyish jaw - too old for a boy and barely a man - held like iron, accepting the blow with a firm certainty that Remus envied. Dead Lily. Mrs. Evans-Potter's thin body was still warm with wet places in the oceans of her red hair that James had worshiped with kisses and sighed over day by day. But James had been cold when Remus brought himself to touch his wrist, trembling._

_It was almost as if someone had held Lily and cried on her - had wept over her lifeless face and sightless emerald eyes._

_'can't have you skeletizing before our eyes...' Eyes. Dead, souless eyes._

No. Can't have that happening.

Remus rose and brushed the black peppercorn earth from his hands. The world was grey again with splashes of dark crimson-

_-the rose on the grave, the Wisteria's blood splattered on a cracked stone wall, a dusty hot scarlet smoke rising from an eerie cauldron the day hundreds of muggles had died untraceably, the Gryffindor scarf James had worn, muffling laughter, the night he died-_

-and flicks of fading golddust where Sirius' fingerprints had been in his life but were now slowly dissolving the way adrenaline dissolved and left you weak with the recollection of strength you no longer had.

Grey. It was all grey now. The energy had faded into a dull thrumming background and the blood pounding - the roar was deafening - in Remus' ears had flown directly from his heart, to ease that failing organ.

Numb. He was numb. The cold wasn't quite as bad anymore and he despised the emotional morphine his body was taking in as much as he was grateful of it.

He needed to keep a clear head. This was his moment to release everything - everything, before he would go back to the pack and pretend that he was Remus Lupin, werewolf and wandless wizard dark-blest, rather than the boy with amber eyes who had walked into the sun and saw his friends melt beside him.

Snape was much better at this. He had never appreciated it this much before. Now, Remus wondered if sometimes Snape ever lost himself like this. It was unlikely - but the Slytherin _was_ human. Snape never really had friends to start with, so it may have been easier to start with - _or much, much harder._

_An ocean rose and fell, shattering everything inside. The emotion dribbled from Remus Lupin's face as if it had been washed away with acid._

His mouth settled in a cold line. Fenrir was waiting.

He would do this. For Sirius-_no_-for himself and the Marauder he should have been. _The Marauder that saved his brethren rather then stooping to avenge them._

But he had never reached that level of greatness. He would have to settle for second best.

As he walked away from Sirius - from everything - he could feel the ink bottles bumping against his thigh and surprised himself by smiling. There was nothing sweet about the curling of his lips. It was dark and feral and would have killed Sirius to see it.

_The same smile Voldemort no doubt donned when he killed James and Lily._

But Sirius was sleeping in the lost realm of half-space, half-time. And Remus was no longer obstructed by morals when it came to vengence.

Bellatrix would not see him coming.

_None of them would._

* * *

><p>"High Vampires," said Dumbledore to the rows of robed witches and wizards that made up the Order of the Phoenix.<p>

His light blue eyes were not twinkling, but rather grave and somber.

"But those have remained hidden for _centuries_!" Hestia Jones exclaimed with just as much despair as disbelief in her voice.

The others muttered similar statements, looking disturbed and ill at ease. Severus said nothing, nor did his expression change beyond a bat of an eyelid. It was not news to him.

Dumbledore bowed his head in agreement. "I am not aware what he has offered them in exchange, but contact has already been made by their Ambassador. An Ancient, I assume, Codenamed Matrasit of unknown origins."

"_Matrasit_?" a deep, youthful voice drew all eyes to the back as Charlie Weasley frowned. "Romanian. I'm pretty sure it means 'kidgloves'." His brow wrinkled before his eyes grew round.

Dumbledore froze, mouth going bitter with the humourless irony, but the gesture was a subtle one. He relaxed immediately. "Ah. Of course."

Romanian had been one of the few European languages he had not mastered as a youth. It appeared that Remus had also made this mistake.

He had been unable to write exactly what the vampire had said to him, but retained one word.

"Charlie?" asked Dumbledore quietly, "can you tell me what 'umbra' means?"

"Um...shadow, I think," said the tanned, muscular redhead, scratching a scar on his built forearm. His eyes snapped up. "Is it important?"

_Shadow_? He would get back to that later.

"As of now, not our priority. Not even Grindlewald managed to entice High Vampires to his side. I, myself, have only battled the common vampire, although in great multitudes. Inferi are said to be a pale shadow of the danger that is faced by a Vampire Lord."

Mrs. Weasley's knuckles grew white as her grip on the table intensified. She was not alone in her horror, but perhaps hers was the most marked.

"There is some small hope. Slayers are said to be trained and gifted for this sole purpose: to defeat and destory High Vampires. We _must_ contact these professionals somehow."

His gaze turned swiftly to Severus.

The man was pale and alert, otherwise unreadable and Dumbledore had a brief flashing memory -

-_ a child with stark skin and inky hair just as pale and alert and emotions repressed beneath a ice-cold mask as he swore to never reveal the secret of the boys he hated right after their stupidity had nearly ended his life._

Something hurt inside, but he held it down. So many things hurt. He was excelling in bleeding out the pain into numbness.

_Arianna..._

"I trust you will inform me when you have found a way to contact the Highest caliber of Slayers."

He received the curt nod and intense black eyes that made him hurt further and swell with pride simultaneously. It lessened when moved his gaze back to the others.

"I will assign you all your tasks seperately. There are papers with all the information on your contact you need. You must make it your priority to track down these Slayers. Alastor, Arthur, it is your job to seek information on High Vampires. The Unspeakables under these names may prove helpful."

"Professor?" said Emmeline Vance in her smooth, sophisticated voice that was just as silvery as the streaks in her hair. They still called him that, bless them. "What about Harry Potter?"

"I am going to take him further into my confidence," he allowed. "I will be bringing him over to the Burrow shortly. He could also use the comfort of some friends after what happened with Sirius."

There was a softening of eyes around the table and a tightening of Severus Snape's mouth. Dumbledore could not grudge him his dislike of the man, but often wished that things had been different.

The past could not be changed, but sometimes he hoped...

_Ever the optimist, whispered a voice in his head. Grindlewald's voice. His dearest Grindlewald and the man he would have once given his life - his world - to make happy. Before...oh Arianna!_

_"One must become optimistic after all this, or else one would go insane..."_

Dumbledore rose. His voice was pleasant and even. "This session is over. Please head out in sets of two, alternating your departure to every fifteen minutes."

There was a scuffling of chairs and snatching of envelopes.

Dumbledore waited until they were all gone to bury his face in his hands.

He was so old now. All the others had died long ago on bloody battlefields or more recently in accidents or rocking chairs. There was a few left, but they did not _Know_ him anymore.

No one _Knew_ him. But he could not think these thoughts. He had given up them long ago.

The pathway to greatness is a lonely one. His loneliness, his heartache did not matter. He was a leader. He had to remain strong for them.

_He would pay the toll for his past sins._

A flash of gold and scarlet and Fawkes was humming in his lap, and nuzzling his chest with comforting warmth.

"Thank you, old friend," he whispered, stroking the soft feathers, "I could not have made it without you."

The phoenix tugged at his glove with a glossed beak until the grey, withered hand was revealed. A bright eye blinked, a film of liquid formed, and pearly tears tumbled onto the dead, wasted skin _all to no avail._

"I'm sorry," he said gently, slowly shifting the weeping bird away from his hand and returning the glove to its place. "This time there is nothing you can do."

* * *

><p>"I have established contact with Kaiba," said Ryou quietly, slipping into the back of the van and leaning forward until his cheek was a breath away from Marik's. He smelled like smoke and blood still with an underlying snap of spicy cologne. A gloved finger traced roadways on the map Marik had splayed across a knee. "We are to meet at this designated spot. It would be too risky to meet with a Kaibacorp vehicle, so he is sending Suijon with a jet."<p>

Ryou Bakura's eyes met Marik Ishtar's forcefully. "It is under army registration."

"I understand." Desperate times call for desperate measures. If these magic fucks wanted to mess with them, they would do so at their own peril. It was worth risking the crossfire, but he understood Ryou's pain because it was okay to risk themselves _but the children were so young_.

"It is the safest way," Marik said pointedly, nudging the man in the driver's seat. Chabrias, a High Warrior from Clan Aut, was loyal in a way all his men were loyal. It would go against his very nature to disobey or betray an Ishtar.

Ishtar was the Hand of Ra on Earth, beneath only the Pharaoh. And the Pharaohs had married into the Ishtar family before they died out, lengthening that godlike power. The Ishtar heir ruled the Clan Lords, who in turn ruled their Clans.

"Lord Akefia," Chabrias Aut bowed his head to Ryou who returned the acknowledgment with a curt nod.

The name Ryou Bakura was unspoken in the Clans because Lord Ishtar's right hand man was known as the mysterious Lord Akefia of whom they knew nothing more then tales of his deadliness.

They did not speak ill of Lord Akefia or admit any suspicion as to his character because _that would be questioning Lord Ishtar's judgment._

And that was the same as spitting in Ra's face.

Chabrias must be very important indeed to his Clan and worthy in Marik's eyes if he was granted the honor of meeting Lord Ishtar, much less _unmasked_.

Ryou must have noted this the instant he had acknowledged and sized up the man.

"The children are still asleep in the back," said Marik, slipping into the back beside Ryou before fastening his metal knuckled gloves over tanned, calloused hands. "I sedated the woman, Medea. She became hysterical when the shock finally hit in."

"Noted," at a signal from Marik, the car slid out of the drive and down the abandoned alleyway, scaring a starved yellow tom cat.

"So tell me," said Marik, switching easily into Japanese, "who is this Suijon fellow and why do _you_ dislike him?"

Ryou's eyes remained on the road in front of them. His reply was also in Japanese, albeit in a smoother, more cultured tone. "He is one of Kaiba's trusted accomplices in business. I've met him several times in unfavourable circumstances, that is all."

"Define 'unfavourable'." He lifted a blonde eyebrow.

When Ryou said 'unfavourable' that could mean anything from a disagreement over a type of sandwich to a war with a long list of fatalities.

"It will not cause us any trouble in our journey," a gloved hand rifled through a pocket and withdrew a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. He leaned against the open sliver of window as he lit it, tasted, and breathed out a nicotine-scented swirl.

He registered Marik's _Look_ and handed one over, explaining in a voice that was carefully blank of emotion. "I don't like to smoke in front of the children."

Marik heard what Ryou did not say, and watched his best friend and ally - shuttered with shadow and only the faintest traces moonlight to define the harsher angles in his face - hollow his cheeks attractively as he smoked before removing the cigarette between two gloved fingers and blowing mist out the window.

He slammed the thoughts of Ryou doing other things with that silky rose-tinted mouth out of his head. It was _wrong_. Ryou was grieving still. The children were ashes and scorched flesh, burning on that plain; dead, dead, and all he could think of was _how glad he was that he was able to comfort perfect, beautiful Ryou._

Marik hated himself sometimes.

He focused on his cigarette (rather then his friend in the shadows who for all appearances was a picture of some lonely, inhumanly gorgeous deity done in charcoal) for a few moments before he drew the dangerous stick out from under the car seat - careful not to let it touch his skin - and began to tell Ryou what had happened.

When they drove into the designated place, Ryou had been silent for some time.

"We were attacked with men who had sticks like these. They used it to balance their magic the same way we used the Items - _no - not the same way_. Their magic was confusing and bizarre, and neither golden nor shadow. It was feebler, but seemed more diverse. The only similarity we shared was that it was a balance to control these abilities that would otherwise be unreachable."

Marik looked over his shoulder at the sleeping children in lumps of blankets. He could not see the trembling mouths or the tearstains under their eyes while they huddled like this. "You asked Kaiba to create a magick tracer once," he said quietly. "The prototypes didn't seem to work because it went off in impossible directions."

He felt Ryou's hand close around his wrist. The warmth was comforting and unusual _because it was Ryou and Ryou hated to be touched._

"But," he continued, "if it was because the magick was different, unfamiliar, widespread..."

"That will be our first stop," Ryou put out his third cigarette and stepped out into the still-warm evening air that was oddly dark for summer.

His leg was injured, Marik realized suddenly. He had seen the blood on Ryou but assumed that it was not his because as he could recall Ryou was either injured so horribly he could barely move or not more then a scratch or two.

"Have you taken care of that?" he asked softly.

"I have looked at it briefly," Ryou's collar dipped and there was a brief moment of deliciously inked skin before he righted it. "It is nothing to worry over."

"I see."

And he said no more as the high-speed, stealthy jet landed because he _trusted_ Ryou. Even enough to take care of himself physically.

The men that climbed out certainly looked like Special Ops. Especially the first guy. Marik blinked, brown contacts in place and hair and eyebrows deceptively black _like a normal native_, as Ryou had said.

They stopped in a line and the first man, air of nonchalance about him, stepped in front of Ryou, lazily blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Silverfingers." Oh. _Oh._ So _that's_ how it was. Damn.

"Suijon." Ryou was equally polite and brief.

There was a silent war of casual eye contact and Ryou won, while Suijon backed down with apparent good grace. There was an edge to his voice when he spoke, though.

"I hear you have children with you."

"I do. Three injured. And a woman."

"I see," Suijon said in a tone that made it very clear to Marik that whatever Kaiba's man was thinking, it was far from the truth. "And these two are your partners."

"We are," drawled Marik in the American accented Arabic he had picked up for these occasions. Chabrias was not stupid. He picked up the hint and said nothing, merely watching with dark, hooded eyes.

There was a start of minor surprise and a supernova of _Something_ in the man's gaze for an instant before he moved on.

Suijon switched to Japanese as he turned to his men abruptly. "Load them in carefully. Kaiba will personally charge you if any of them have complaints."

That made the men work very quickly indeed.

"Could you stay with the children?" Ryou spoke to Marik in his calm, even tone that said he was about to do business. "I believe I need to talk to Suijon." His voice grew softer, even fond although only someone who knew him as well as Marik could pick that up. "Get some sleep as well, if you can. I gave them enough so that they would be out until we arrived."

Marik nodded and wondered as Ryou walked over to Suijon who had been standing just out of earshot and obviously waiting for him.

He also wondered - while snuggling up in the corner of the pitch black jet - why the children moved in their sleep, after being drugged.

_And why the stick he had brought along was inside his jacket and buzzing against his chest instead of being with Ryou like he had left it._

* * *

><p>A young boy sat in a hospital ward. The bandages had not been removed from him and the doctors had looked his body in that clinical way which reminded him of white walls, dour clipboards, the clacking of a thumb on a pen, the snapping sound of latex gloves, and the overwhelming smell of hand-sanitizer.<p>

They wouldn't let him remove his white, white bonds any time soon.

But he would heal - _mostly_. He healed at an unusual rate. That was his only reprieve.

They were whispering again. Probably wondering why he had not spoken in the days he had been here.

It did not matter what they thought; what they did.

_Everyone was gone. There was only blankness where there had been family and friends. His family had been his friends. The other children he had built forts with and invited over for tea and cake were no longer part of his world. Their faces were blurry in his mind._

He could not go back and see them ever again or...

_Flash! A shock of lighning and slamming door; snipers at the ready with a tall dark silhouette between them -as familiar as his own thoughts- and a cold mouth saying "blood for blood"._

_Flash! Red pain and darkness, horrible darkness swallowing him whole as they watched, watched him with those cool pitiless eyes and blank faces that were not really faces. Assassins and snipers were always faceless. It was a trick that he could never understand._

_Flash! Being dragged down below, far below where there had never been light and melting waxy figurines, dripping crimson, crawled out and smiled terribly at him saying 'You are ours!'_

But there were whispers inside him as well. There always had been a muffled voice inside of him that he had heard vaguely at the strangest times. It had gotten clearer since he had stopped speaking.

It said the oddest things. Had the oddest ideas.

But it said it was far, far older than him, must be smarter than him. It was nice too; convincing. Not the way _He_ had been. Perhaps it was right after all.

It often forgot things though. Things that he wanted it to forget. Things that he wanted to forget as well but could not. Things he had done. Things others had done to him.

The doctors were re-bandaging his hands. There was a glint of metal - cold, bright metal like the blades the men had used to _NOdon'tthinkofthat_!

The clock hands weren't moving properly. He wondered why they had gotten so slow.

Or why the doctors muttered words like 'severe trauma' or 'extensive blood loss'.

Couldn't they see he was fine now? He wouldn't again cry like he had done before when _Mother..._

Some of them would come over and ask him what his name was. He would stare blankly through their heads until they gave up.

_"And keep your filthy little mouth shut!"_

He would not speak again. He was an obedient child.

After all, Father wouldn't have said it unless he had reason.

He folded one hand over the other and waited to die. Like _They_ had.

Like Father had asked him to.

Yes. He was, as always, an extremely obedient child.

The doctors were a white swarm of bodies that moved with a precision that convinced him they were assassins.

_Why had they not killed him? Father had asked him to die._

But maybe Father meant...oh no! He had to do it _himself_? He was being a coward, of course. He had no right to live when _They_ had died. He would do this. Father said so. But there was nothing to do it with here.

He slipped off the plain hospital bed and sheets that smelt like antiseptic and walked towards the little bathroom.

When they saw where he was going, the people in white lost interest. One of them sighed and crossed a hand over his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

It still hurt to use his hands, but he would have to try. He had not been aware enough the past few days, but the jolt and the whiteness had faded and his mind was clear again.

_Like it had been Afterwards._

_And he had done what had to be done. For Mother. For Sister._

There was nothing in the bathroom he could use. There was no plug for the sink, so he could not drown himself and everything was plastic and blunt. The curtain had potential but his hands being as they were made that option impossible.

He could not bend the fingers..._fingers_...he stopped himself from crying with an effort.

The boy flushed the toilet and washed the bandaged palms. It stang still, but he could handle the pain. It was not nearly as bad as what happened to _Them_.

When he walked blankly back into the white chamber, the doctors were gone. All but one with his back turned and a terrible clipboard. He slipped silently out of the door and down the horribly white halls with symetrical doors.

There was a bespectacled man who noticed him before he could find anything to finish himself off with. The man was standing outside of a room where a woman lay very still and very silently on a bed. Her lips were a pale blue - like a robin's egg - and there was a little boy huddled up against her. Smaller - not much - then him with dark hair. He, too, was still as if frozen.

The doctors were covering the pair with a long stark sheet.

He knew what that meant. He was not stupid.

"What are you doing out here? Where are your parents?" the man's voice was gentle, like rain, and he wiped moisture away from his eyes as he spoke.

Then he saw the bandages. "What happened?"

Horror. Concern. So foreign now. But this man was familiar somehow. Yes. He had seen him in a picture on the back of his favourite book 'Ancient Egyptian History'.

_"A five year old should not be reading that!"_

_"But I like it. It has arty-facts made of strained gold and magic symbols and I can read some of them."_

That, perhaps, was the reason, after remaining silent for days, he answered.

"They went to heaven," he whispered, realizing with horror he was disobeying Father for the first time but unable to stop himself, "I want to go there too but the doctors_ won't let me_."

Something changed in the man's face and he sank down to one knee. A hand touched him gently on the shoulder and pulled him into a loose embrace, mindful of the wounds. He instinctively shied away but that hurt so he stilled tentatively. Long hair brushed against his cheek and he was surprised to realize it was blue.

"It is not your time to go to heaven, child." the man said softly, in a voice that trembled against his forehead. "Is there no one left for you?"

He shook his head slowly between the man's neck and shoulder. His voice was muffled and his breath fanned back hot from the man's skin. "No one. They scream sometimes when I'm asleep, though. It's my fault, I know. _He_ said so and _He's_ always right."

The man shook slightly, though he could not see why. "Who?"

He looked up and saw big, heartbreaking eyes reflected on the man's glasses. "Father."

_"From this day onward I am no longer your Father and you are no longer my son."_

"He's gone too now and I'm...I know I shouldn't be afraid."

Why was the man crying? Had he been hurt?

"You don't need to be afraid," said the man with a gentle, gentle voice and kind, wet eyes. "I'm Bakura Huijon, but when I return you can call me otousan."

_Father. If he had this man as a father then it did not matter what the last one said. He did not have to die! He would grant Mother's final words as she had whispered 'Live!' before she had been dragged away with Amane; fingers drawing bloody marks along the splintered wooden floor._

And then, finally, he drew every inch of the brightness that made the whisperer forget things. He drew it upon his own mind _until he forgot the man who had disowned him._

Until he forgot the image of that man, the memory of _That_ man, _even his very own last name._

He smiled tentatively at the man with long blue hair, spectacles on his nose, and kind, kind eyes.

_"My name is Ryou."_

This man had given him life again. He would never forget such a wonderful thing so long as he lived.

He would not try to die while he waited for Bakura-san to return. _He would Live._ No matter how long it he had to wait. He was patient. _Whatever it took_. Steal, beg, borrow. He was six years old now. He was a big boy and Mother and Teacher had called him 'a prodigy' _even before he cracked that code._

Bakura Ryou was born that day, and he would cherish the names eternally, as well as the ones who had given them to him

_And then everythng faded with a jolt of the jet..._

_Marik's eyes snapped open as he woke in a cold sweat. The air around him was black and his arm was slung over a warm, tiny body. That was right - Chione had curled up to him. There was a golden gleam in the darkness that faded even as he realized that it came from his own forehead._

* * *

><p>AN - Sorry for the wait. If the story seems confusing now, know that all loose ends _will_ tie up eventually. I edited this quickly, so do tell if I have made any important mistakes.

My apologies for the slowness so far. Reviews make my writing better and faster! :D

I'll also be updating Various Shades -hopefully- before the month is up.


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